There was a room of open books under glass.

"If you look long enough," he said, "the pictures will move."

Ruth stared at the medieval patterns on the books. They moved. The fisher drew up a fish, a bird flew across a page.

"Why?"

"A trick of the eyes. This glove," he said, "belonged to a captain of mercenaries. Look at the embroidered key. The mark of some lord who wanted to own him."

It was dark when they came back. They traveled by bus, a form of transport Malach seemed to favor when they did not walk.

As they entered the basement flat, the two dogs barked resonantly.

Ruth embraced them.

Malach went into the living room, stood by the window. Ruth switched on the lamps. The dogs trotted to Malach. He touched them absently.

"Are the bars on the windows," Ruth said, "because of me?"

"No. To keep out burglars. This is London."

"The long window," she said.

"Bullet-proof," he said.

"Will we go out?" she asked. Often, now, they went to the restaurant for dinner.

"Wait," he said.

Ruth waited. Then she said, "What for?"

"You ask the wrong questions," he said. "You ask about stupid little things. You've been starved of answers."

"Yes."

"Ruth," he said. Then, after a pause, again, "Ruth."

"What is it?"

"I want," he said. He stopped. He put both hands on the glass. The silver rings on his left hand burned. They were like the rings from Egypt and ancient Italy and France in 1403.

Ruth felt afraid. It was an old fear, and she knew it.

"What?" she said.

Malach grunted. It was a strange sound, coming from him as if he had been punched. Nothing could hurt him or get at him. He was too quick, too old. But now, something did.

He took his left hand, and covered the left side of his face, slowly.

"What is it?" said Ruth.

Malach shouted. Without words.

He spun around. His body whipped backward. The hand over his face had formed a fist of burning rings.

Ruth became very small. She seemed to shrink.

Malach's agony filled up the room.

The dogs dropped on their bellies, whining.

"Eyes," Malach said.

Ruth had a child's face now. A face she had perhaps never had before.

"What?"

"Ice," he said. "Ice."

His right eye was open, staring as if blind. He came across the room, and past her, past the two dogs. He walked into the second bedroom, the spare sparse place where he slept. He kept his left fist pressed over his left eye.

"What is it?" Ruth said again.

"Megrim," he said. "Crier en has."

He slammed the door suddenly so the whole flat shook.

Inside there was a second crash, as if he had thrown himself against the wall.

Ruth crept slowly to the door. She listened. She heard him say loudly: "In umbra erat aqua—in umbra erat aqua de petra… quasi sanguis ex Christo—"